


The Truth of the Matter

by trustingHim17



Category: Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: Dreams and Nightmares, Gen, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Post-War, Retirement
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-29
Updated: 2021-02-05
Packaged: 2021-03-14 22:20:39
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 5,765
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29053533
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/trustingHim17/pseuds/trustingHim17
Summary: Life is a lot simpler when the past only haunts one of them at a time.
Comments: 4
Kudos: 18





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Fulfills Whumptober 26 & Alt. 9.  
> 26\. If you thought the head trauma was bad… migraine, concussion, blindness  
> Alt. 9 memory loss

It would never cease to amaze me how I could go months or years without anything more than an occasional case-related nightmare, only for a chance word to open the gates of Hades, releasing the undead to torment me around the clock.

I supposed I could hardly call this a _chance_ word, however, when I could no more escape talk of the war than I could escape the sound of the crashing waves. I dreaded going to sleep each night, dreaded reliving the memories yet again.

_“Alec! Look out! No!”_

_I fell to my knees beside him, fighting to stem the bleeding as I refused to believe the damage was as bad as it appeared._

_My friend knew better, however. “I guess we’ll have to postpone that drink,” his fading voice said as he struggled to focus on me. “Tell my Nellie girl I love her, John. Take care of her for me.”_

_“No, I won’t need to tell her. Stay with me! She doesn’t want me. She wants you! She always has.”_

_Blood gushed from his side, literally pouring through my fingers no matter what I did. An artery had been compromised. There was nothing I could do, and less than a minute passed before my friend’s hollow gaze stared through me._

_“Alec!”_

I shot upright, breathing heavily. A familiar bedroom met my searching gaze, and I fought to slow my breathing. I was home, in Sussex. I was safe. I had been back for nearly a month from this round, and Maiwand was decades ago.

_“Farewell, my friend.”_

I flinched. Knowledge of safety made no difference to the dreams that haunted me, did not stop me from watching my failures yet again.

The sun would be up soon enough; there was no reason now to stay abed, and I pushed myself to my feet and wandered out to the sitting room, glad to hear Holmes’ deep, steady breaths from his bedroom. I had not cried out in my dreams this time, for which I was grateful. He did not need to forgo sleep just because I was having nightmares. They would pass soon enough, I knew, hopefully without intruding on daylight again. Less than a month removed from battle, each day without a regression was its own victory.

Light touched the eastern sky as I moved across the room, and I looked out the window instead of settling in my chair. The clear sky promised a beautiful morning, with a fall chill more bracing than truly cold, and even through closed windows I could hear waves unhurriedly pounding the shore. Seagulls drifted overhead, passing the sandpipers changing beaches, and the occasional flight of migrating geese let out its signature call.

I glanced around the room, trying to decide what I wanted to do. Holmes would not wake for a few hours yet, having stayed up late last night muttering about his wintering bees, and I certainly had no wish to go back to bed. Did we need anything from town?

I moved quietly into the kitchen, mindful that noises from that room tended to carry further than from the sitting room, and started checking cabinets. Holmes had just gone into town earlier in the week, however, and I could find nothing that we needed. I moved back to the sitting room with a sigh.

Perhaps I could read a book? I had brought my small library with me upon moving to the cottage, and I browsed through them now, absently scanning titles in search of something I could use to capture my attention for a while. If I relaxed enough, I might be able to return to sleep, but even the extensive line of titles held nothing that caught my interest.

_“Stay with me, Private! He is coming.”_

I quickly turned away from the bookshelf, from the title whose wording was far too close to my memories. Private Watson was gone, but I had granted him the time to say goodbye to the brother with whom he shared a tent. I had not completely failed that time.

_“Leave me behind, Murray.”_

But knowing as much did not stop the memories from haunting me, from springing to mind at inopportune times after nearly a week of nightmares had brought them to the fore. My promise would require I ask for help soon if I could not solve it myself.

Not yet, though. I need not declare that weakness yet. Maybe a walk along the shore would help me relax. I had always found the waves to be soothing, and I quietly shut the door behind me.

Wave after wave crashed against the sand, each following the one previous with a rhythmic consistency, and I walked slowly, just out of reach of the water. I did not plan to go far from the cottage, repeatedly walking the same short stretch rather than go too far, but I enjoyed the crying birds, the rushing water, the brilliant colors of the rising sun. The ocean had not lost its ability to relax me, and I soon seated myself on a rock, content to watch the waves roll in as the sky changed from black, to purple, to red and orange. It was too bad the temperature dropped too far overnight for me to leave my window open, as I would probably sleep better if I could hear the waves.

Both crashing waves and colorful sunrise had been absent from the trenches, and I leaned back, absorbing the color around me and glad to be home.


	2. Chapter 2

He studied the timeline in front of him, confirming the pattern he had noted over the last several months. An unfathomable concept, but apparently true: someone was trying to copy Moriarty’s crime web. It was not quite a recreation, as certain components were different—and besides, he and Mycroft had both confirmed the breakup of _that_ web—but the layout was the same. He would have to move quickly, to catch it in its still infant stages if he wanted to prevent another Reichenbach. He could not do that to Watson again.

He flipped through his notes, trying to be quiet. Watson still slept upstairs, and Holmes had no wish to wake him. His friend had been showing signs of nightmares recently, and their few wounds were still healing from that cab accident. While their own injuries had been relatively minor when those cabs had collided, there had been others involved, and he knew Watson saw their faces each night. He needed the sleep.

He focused his thoughts back on the pages in front of him, searching, checking, confirming the patterns he knew were there. He would have to get this information to Mycroft. His brother had the resources to nip this quickly, while it was still small. That would be better than Holmes taking the more thorough route he had used last time.

A gasp sounded from the room above, and he heard Watson sit bolt upright in bed. Holmes looked up from his notes, counting silently. Usually, Watson either went back to sleep or got up within twenty-five seconds.

Thirty seconds passed, however, then thirty-five, and still silence reigned in Watson’s bedroom. Holmes frowned and set his notes aside. Was Watson having trouble breaking the nightmare?

Purposely creaking the loose board in the fourth stair and making the bedroom door squeak, he strained to spy his friend in the low light. He would need to be careful if the dream had sent Watson into a memory.

Watson’s gaze shot up at the noise, however, and he quickly threw his legs over the side of the bed. Holmes smothered a sigh of relief despite his friend’s defensive instinct. Watson would not have looked at him at all if he were not in the present.

“Alright, Watson?”

His friend made no answer, staring at him as a wary horror flickered across his face in the darkness, and Holmes’ worry returned.

“Watson?”

Again, there was no answer, and he moved forward, Watson’s gaze following as if trying to decipher an unfamiliar shadow. A convenient candle supplemented the faint sunlight drifting through the drapes, and unfiltered grief flooded Watson’s face as he stared at Holmes.

“Watson, are you with me?”

Watson made no answer, tearing his gaze from Holmes to look around the room. Confusion joined the intense grief.

“Come to the sitting room, Watson.”

His friend pulled himself upright, limping slightly as he followed Holmes out the door, but he stepped away when Holmes offered his arm on the stairs. Holmes did not try again, merely staying in front of his friend in case of a problem.

He tried to lead Watson to the settee, but Watson ignored the gesture, refusing to go past where he leaned against the doorframe. That grief-filled gaze scanned the room, noting every detail but ignoring Holmes completely.

“Watson? What is wrong?”

There was no response. Watson continued scanning the room, grief and confusion mixing freely in his expression in a way Holmes had never thought to see, especially after Watson had changed so much in the previous three years.

“Watson, look at me.”

Watson ignored him, studying—no _memorizing—_ the room for another long moment before heaving a sigh. He pushed himself off the doorframe and turned away, and Holmes lunged forward to grab Watson’s arm. Watson evaded him, nearly skittering away in a motion so utterly foreign to his friend that Holmes did not follow immediately.

“Watson?”

Watson did not answer, racing toward the stairs, and Holmes rushed after him. Something was horribly wrong. Had his injuries not been minor after all? Watson had said he was fine last night.

He pushed the thought aside. What was going on did not matter nearly as much as catching his friend.

Watson sprinted down the stairs, Holmes barely a step behind as Watson moved much faster than his limping gait should have allowed, and Mrs. Hudson hurried out as Watson made it to the front door.

“Is something wrong, Mr. Holmes?”

He dodged around her without answering, nearly slamming the front door as Watson climbed into a cab.

“Watson!”

Watson made no reply, did not even look back as the cab lurched into motion, and Holmes ran after them, trying to push aside the questions and worry in his quest to keep up with his friend.

What was going on?

The crowded streets that prevented the cab from moving very fast also kept Holmes from catching up completely, but he was only a block behind when the cab finally stopped in front of Watson’s old practice. Watson never got out, however, staring in confusion at Verner’s name on the door and apparently not seeing Holmes hurrying closer. Holmes stayed quiet, unwilling to make Watson run from him again. He needed to get within reach.

Watson called out another address just before Holmes could lunge, however, and Holmes wondered if he had been spotted after all, for while the next address rang loud enough for him to hear clearly over the general noise, the cabbie picked up his pace.

“Watson, wait!”

There was no reaction, and Holmes quickly lost the cab in the crowd. He hurried toward the address instead.

Had Watson hidden a head injury? He could think of little else that could cause such a rapid change.

Using a shortcut the cabbie could not, he reached the address Watson had called only a minute or so behind the cab. The cab clip-clopped away from a small, squat building next to a bridge, but the door was locked.

“Hand it over!”

He spun toward the voice. A burly young man held a familiar figure against a pole on the nearby walking bridge, and Watson’s faint voice carried as Holmes hurried forward.

“I told you,” Watson answered tiredly. “I have no money. I do not even have my wallet.”

The ruffian held him tighter, pinning him roughly against the pole. “I don’t believe you!” he snarled. “Everyone carries a wallet, especially a toff like you. Unless you let that nosey detective handle all the money?”

Watson’s chuckle was more sad than amused. “I have yet to know of anyone who cares about money after death.” The man eyed the edge of the bridge, and Watson made no protest. “Do it. I have nothing to give you, and I will see them that much sooner.”

Understanding slammed into Holmes as he sprinted closer. Amnesia. A concussion had stolen Watson’s last several months of memories. That was why he had left the flat as he had and why he was not fighting back. He thought Holmes was dead.

The blackguard pinning him to a pole was about to get a rude awakening.

“Get away from him!”

The man started violently, shoving Watson to the side just before Holmes barreled into him. They hit the ground hard, and the attacker did not get up. Holmes turned to check on Watson.

His friend had vanished.

“Watson!”

Movement caught his eye, and he nearly leaped to the railing, looking over to find Watson dangling over the river. The movement had been Watson losing his grip with his left hand, and his right was beginning to slip.

“Watson, hold on!”

Watson did not look up at him, did not even react to his words. His friend’s gaze flicked between the bridge and the river, and Holmes struggled to reach a position to help.

He was too late. What was supposed to be a safety rail hampered his ability to reach Watson, and his friend lost his grip on the lower rail. He never said word, did not even scream before he splashed into the river below, but Holmes did not try to check the grief and loss that forced its way out when his friend did not resurface.

_“WATSON!!”_

Holmes lunged upright, still screaming the name as he landed on the floor with a thump.


	3. Chapter 3

His Sussex bedroom stared back at him, and he fought to catch his breath. He no longer lived in London. He was retired and had been for years. Watson had followed him into retirement last year, joined the war effort, then rejoined him less than a month ago. He was safe, whole. There had been no mugging gone wrong. He was fine.

So why was a limping step not coming to stand at his door?

He lunged to his feet, nearly bolting across the room and out into the deserted hall. Why was familiar breathing not carrying from the other bedroom? Did he live here alone? Were the memories a dream and the bridge reality?

The door hit the wall harder than he intended, but a sleep-slurred voice did not curse him from the bed. The bed was empty, covers pulled over the pillow and wrinkle-free as Watson always did as soon as he woke.

And as Holmes had always done in the guest room—before Watson finally retired.

He hurried out to the sitting room, hoping Watson had simply woken early, but that room was empty as well. So were the kitchen and the overlook just in front of the house that they both enjoyed. The cottage was deserted but for him.

He was alone, and he slowly made his way back to that horribly empty bedroom. Doubt and grief warred within him, and he sagged against the door frame as Watson had apparently done in Baker Street so long ago. How could he so clearly remember years of weekend visits and nearly silent phone calls if Watson had died so many years before?

A shape caught his eye, and he moved further into the dimly-lit room. There was a journal on the end table containing an entry dated yesterday, and a half-read novel rested on the wardrobe. Those would not be there if this were merely a guest room, and now he saw more of Watson’s belongings scattered about the space. Watson was alive. He _had_ to be.

But where _was_ he?

The beach. Watson could have woken early and gone to walk the beach. He did that sometimes, when he could not return to sleep but no book held his interest. Watson would be at the beach.

He hurried down the path, going as quickly as he dared. He hardly wanted to arrive at the water in a heap, but he _needed_ to find Watson, needed to reassure himself that his friend was here. Unharmed. Home.

A familiar figure stood at the edge of the water, staring into the rising sun, and Holmes breathed a sigh of relief even as he continued forward. Watson was alive. There had been no mugging, no confusion that sent him rushing out of the flat, no head injury that made him fail to recognize his friend. It was a nightmare, not a memory.

“The colors are far brighter than London’s, are they not?” he asked as he drew closer.

Watson made no reply, apparently caught up in his thoughts, and Holmes moved to stand next to him. Watson would notice him in a moment, probably pretending to start so he could tell Holmes to “stop sneaking up on me” before adding a pawky remark about Holmes wandering around in his nightclothes.

Watson continued staring at the horizon, however, and now Holmes could hear him mumbling faintly.

“Watson?”

There was no answer. Watson did not even glance over before he turned away, completely ignoring Holmes as he moved up the beach, and Holmes’ fear renewed.

“Watson, look at me.”

His friend kept moving, walking slowly on the soft sand. His almost stumbling step moved steadily away from the water, but that did not diminish the fear that shot through Holmes.

Was the part about the head injury true after all?

“Watson.”

The doctor ignored him, continuing that uneven gait as his breathing grew shallower, and Holmes stayed between his friend and the water as he tried and failed to gain Watson’s attention.

Watson’ mumbling decreased, but his gaze remained a thousand miles away as his breathing picked up. Only then did Holmes register the sound carrying on the breeze.

Gunfire. A fusillade of artillery sounded beneath the crashing waves. Watson was not injured; he was in the midst of a regression.

Relief shot through Holmes yet again despite Watson still ignoring him. He knew how to handle this, and a regression was not permanent, not like a head injury. Watson would return to him shortly.

He kept pace beside his friend, never touching him but also blocking his access to the ocean. Watson was no more aware of his surroundings than a sleepwalker, and Holmes would not risk his nightmare playing out for real. Watson could not swim.

He started a quiet monologue, using short, simple sentences to describe anything he saw or anything that came to mind. They would provide an anchor, a way for Watson to pull himself back to the present.

“The sunrise was red, purple, and orange. I am sure you would have enjoyed it. Did you come outside to watch?

“Stackhurst mentioned another beekeeper nearby is thinking of selling some hives. I was doing the figures last night, and I think I will be able to put two more hives in the meadow. You should help me with these. I have told you there is no danger.

“Did you notice that bird has been following you? I suppose you have been feeding the pesky things. You probably want to put a bird feeder behind the cottage, do you not? We will not be luring blue jays to the cottage. Or magpies. You will not convince me otherwise.

“Can you hear me, Watson? You gave me quite a fright, you know, finding you unresponsive after...never mind.”

Watson stopped walking, staring through a nearby bush.

“Come back, Watson. Whatever you are seeing is in the past. You are safe. You are in Sussex. You are not alone.”

Watson suddenly flinched, shying away from Holmes’ presence to place his back against a stout tree. Holmes followed slowly, keeping his body language unthreatening as he tried to catch Watson’s eyes. The flinch meant Watson was probably snapping out of it, and he needed to come back soon. The hyperventilation that always accompanied these episodes would catch up with him in a few minutes.

“You are in Sussex,” he said again. “It is October 1915. The sun just came up a few minutes ago. The cottage is directly behind you. There is a songbird to your right.”

He kept talking, noting Watson’s gaze more than his own words. His friend was glancing around the area rapidly, probably seeing both memories and reality simultaneously. It always took several minutes for Watson to completely break free of a major regression such as this, and Holmes’ attention split. Part of him was talking, providing a monologue for his friend to use as an anchor, while another part wondered off-track why Watson had not asked for help. He had promised to say something should a regression become possible. Had a sleepwalking episode turned into a regression?

He pushed the question aside for the moment as Watson’s flitting gaze finally met his own. Watson’s breathing grew even faster.

“Are you with me?”

Watson made no answer, and his eyes seemed to glaze as he swayed on his feet.

“Watson!”

He lunged forward, steadying his friend to the leaf-covered ground as Watson groaned and dropped his face into his shaking palms.

“Can you hear me?” Holmes asked as he knelt, trying to see past Watson’s fingers to confirm his friend had returned to the present. “You need to slow your breathing.”

Watson nodded sharply. He was back but not yet able to speak, and his gaze resumed flicking over their surroundings as one hand buried itself in the leaves. Remembering the list Watson had mentioned years ago, Holmes gently moved his grip from Watson’s elbow down to his other hand.

“You are in Sussex,” he said again, beginning to tap out a separate message on Watson’s palm to provide a tactile anchor as Watson’s breathing slowly calmed. “It is just after dawn.”

_You are at the base of a tree on the other side of the bee meadow._

“The sunrise was orange and red. You probably would have found many more colors than I saw.”

_How long have you been fighting off a regression?_

“I noticed a bird following you. Have you been feeding them?”

_Please do not lure blue jays and magpies into the area._

“You are safe. You are home.”

_You are not alone._


	4. Chapter 4

_You are not alone._

Though not spoken aloud, Holmes had spoken it all the same, and the phrase rang through my mind. A wealth of information lay in those four short words, but the most important part was that this one had scared him. It had been many years since a regression had truly scared him. What had I done?

I had no idea. The last thing I remembered was settling on the beach to watch the sunrise. The air had been cool, but the breeze had been warm, and I had been content to listen to the waves in the strengthening breeze and watch the sky change color. The colors had been amazingly bright, far brighter than I remembered London’s ever being.

Gunfire sounded faintly, and I tensed, wondering if I was still half-caught in a memory. Was I about to find myself back on the battlefield?

“It is coming over the channel, Watson.”

_Is that what triggered this?_

Possibly. Unexpected gunfire carried on the strengthening breeze could have sent me into a memory, but while my breathing had slowed, my words had not yet returned to say as much. I had been three steps away from a regression for days now, and I had let down my guard on the beach. I was still trembling violently as well.

Holmes moved in front of me, readjusting from a kneeling position to sit on the ground, and I faintly noticed he was still in his nightclothes. I would have had to majorly scare him to bring him all the way from the cottage. Had I called out during the regression?

“Say something, Watson.”

I opened my mouth, but the words refused to come, a fragment of memory rushing forward instead as the wind changed direction. I squeezed his hand as an acknowledgement and tried not to flinch.

“Can you stand?” he asked. “I believe I am sitting in a puddle.”

Amusement coursed through me, and I tried to smile, knowing he was trying to gauge how aware I was. I could not tell how much of my grin reached my face, but some must have, as he relaxed minutely as he helped me up.

I was still trembling, and Holmes kept my arm firmly in his over the short walk back to the cottage, taking a more direct route across the grass rather than down the beach. He opened the door and led me towards the settee only a couple of minutes later.

“T-thank you,” I finally managed quietly, my trembling finally starting to slow as I wondered why the journal I had left near my bed was now in the middle of the sitting room.

Holmes’ gaze had never left me over the slow walk home, and stark relief flickered across his face at my quiet words. Something had happened while I was caught in the memory, but I was not wet, so I could not have wandered into the waves. Had I cried out? Had he woken thinking I was under attack?

Not wanting to leave me long enough to make tea, he hurried toward the kitchen, coming back almost immediately to set a pitcher of water and a full glass within reach before sinking into his chair. I grabbed a paperweight off a nearby table, passing it between shaking hands though I made no effort to speak at first.

I finally broke the silence when he continued staring at me. “Holmes?”

“What triggered it?” he asked instead of answering my silent question.

I shrugged, my gaze on the paperweight I still passed back and forth. “I don’t know. It could have been the gunfire on the breeze, but I remember nothing aside from waking early and deciding to watch the sunrise. I do not even remember the memory this time.”

“What about nightmares?”

“What about them?” I returned.

“Have you been having nightmares?” His voice was just slightly too tense. “Did nightmares cause this?”

Had I been _hiding_ nightmares was what he was truly asking, and I resisted the urge to roll my eyes at him.

“Of course I have, but no, the nightmares did not cause this.” I looked up, studying him as an idea struck. He had very little data from which to work, but nightmares were rarely the direct cause behind a regression. They usually brought the memories to the fore while another trigger sent me into the regression. I would not have expected a nightmare to be his first thought unless—

“Is that why my journal is in the middle of the floor?”

He started, covering it by readjusting in his chair as he glanced at the floor. He had projected his own thoughts onto me, something he very rarely did, which meant that I was not the only one who had endured a nightmare this morning. I had not lived with Holmes for so many years without learning _something_ of deduction, and I started applying what I knew.

A nightmare had roused him sometime after I left the cottage, and he had gone into my room. He would only have gone into my room if the nightmare had been centered on me, and it would have bothered him to find the room empty. That explained why he had grabbed my journal. He might have looked to confirm there was an entry dated yesterday, but something else was at play here. Why had he followed me down to the beach in his nightclothes?

“Did I cry out during the regression?” I finally asked.

He shook his head, knowing what I was trying to do and watching to see if I would succeed. I could not deduce as rapidly as he could, nor could I deduce more than some basic information, but I could tell he wanted me to figure out why he had followed me rather than having to explain. I had already noticed enough that he knew I would ask if I did not solve it, and deducing this made a useful distraction to move on from the regression. With that tacit permission, I forged forward.

What kind of a dream would send him sprinting from the cottage in his nightclothes? It could not have been a normal nightmare, where he relived an old case or its aftereffects. The journal and our location would have undeniably proven those wrong as well as any dream that I had died in the war. Except one.

“Was the telegram true?”

Telegrams had gotten crossed on my way home, and Holmes had gotten Private Watson’s death notice instead of my travel plans. As ranks were not included in the telegrams and we shared both first and last names, I had returned to find that he had thought me dead for a number of days. Dreaming that the telegram had been accurate would have sent him searching the town for me, nightclothes or no.

He opened his mouth, closed it, and shook his head. “Do you remember the bridge troll?”

I nodded. The bridge troll was a term Londoners had applied to a man we had caught over twenty years before. The man waited on a walking bridge on the other side of London for unsuspecting pedestrians, mugging them when they passed by.

“What about the cab accident in ’95?”

I nodded again. Our cab had collided with another when the other driver had cut a blind corner too sharply. We had escaped relatively uninjured, but a pedestrian caught beneath the horses’ hooves had not been so lucky.

“And the bridge where the railings were low enough to trip over but high enough to prevent aid?”

“What about them?”

He gestured for patience, to let him tell me the only way he could.

“The Case of the Forgetful Clerk?”

A head injury had left a man essentially trapped in the same day, and he had held such a repetitive job that the problem had gone unnoticed for nearly two weeks. He arrived at work on time, and he did everything that had been part of his daily schedule, but he missed anything new. He missed meetings. He consistently forgot the new task that had been assigned the day after his injury, and he had no idea who his brother was when the other man arrived unexpectedly. It had been this last part that got him the help he needed, but what did this have to do with the dream that had sent Holmes to the beach in his nightclothes?

My confusion showed on my face, and Holmes readjusted in his chair. “Combine them,” he said quietly. “You woke two days after the accident, and you had lost all memory of my return. You reacted with horror, grief when I walked into your room, and you refused to follow me into the sitting room, leaving to catch a cab to your old practice instead. When you found Verner there, you went to the bridge, where the man tried to mug you. I intervened, but he shoved you toward the railing. I was not fast enough.”

Then he had woken to an empty cottage, and when he finally found me, I had not known him. No wonder this one had scared him so badly that he still studied me as if I might disappear the next time he blinked. I pushed myself off the settee, ignoring the fine tremors still shaking me to lay a hand firmly on his shoulder. Sometimes the purposeful contact was all either of us needed.

“I’m fine, Holmes.”

He finally relaxed, the stare he still directed at me now focused on making sure the tremors I could not yet smother did not ruin my balance. I sank into my chair before he had a reason to act on that worry.

“Did I hear you say a bird was following me?”

His smirk was not completely genuine, but it was close. “You did,” he confirmed. “A small, fat, red bird stayed about twenty yards from you as you wandered up the sand toward the trees. It looked like a finch, but I did not get a clear enough view to be sure. Have you been feeding them?”

I nodded, watching to see if that would irritate him. “A shop in town has cornmeal for relatively cheap, and while the birds do not eat all of it, they eat some. I do that some days when you are studying your bees.”

He hesitated. “Does this attract magpies or jays?”

I shook my head. “Both of those are larger birds. They might come for a snack, but they move along quickly enough. Cornmeal is nothing more than a treat I can use to coax the birds a little closer.”

Silence answered me for a long moment as he thought about that. My trembling finally slowed enough I could cover it, and I sipped the glass of water.

“We could make a feeder to put behind the cottage,” he said after a moment.

I glanced up, nearly spilling the water in surprise. “I did not want to interfere with your bees.”

He waved off the worry. “There are no birds here that would hunt the bees.” _And that would provide another distraction on mornings like today._

I smiled, hearing the unspoken half of his reply just as easily as the spoken. The activity of a bird feeder _would_ have provided another distraction this morning, one that might have kept me from going to the beach.

“I saw a wire cage in town the other day,” I told him. “If we mixed suet with cornmeal and some seed, we could attract a variety of songbirds, and the openings were too small for the jays to use.”

He nodded. Part of today would be spent building a bird feeder, but another of his comments came to mind just before I could get up.

“Did you say you wanted to add two more hives?”

He pulled himself to his feet and went to change clothes—as clear a _yes_ as I had ever seen. I sighed.

Would he ever have enough bees?

**Author's Note:**

> I love comments :)


End file.
